Dogs slink around her bed in hunger.
Lest you make sacred her image
on a brick, on your drive or thumb,
she needs to be turned twice a day
plant-ish, in her deshabille.
Lethargy has its roots in lethal.
This is the truth you must share
or die, the waves over your head,
the waving you’re not doing.
Pride vacuums away the scraps
yet nobody empties the bag.
Maybe she hurts. Maybe.
The dogs devour her at dusk.
You have it in a book, read once,
now on the computer shelf.
Clever is what those dogs become,
punished by crowds anxious to see
the Countess’ soul fly from their mouths.
She wears gold and shines: sunlight.
You are one of those dogs.
A De Chirico head aslant on a coverlet,
body mostly flown, the dazed prayers dumb.
The ritual cigarette, the ritual drink:
incense, holy water. No ambivalence,
the woman inside fled, the whispers
I make of tenderness—hers—she sleeps through.
She’s in that corridor, tunnel, the light is left on—
shut if off. But the nurse has to see the thermometer.
No ambivalence. No valence either, no speech.
My own heart stops, skids. No lingering regret or all,
sealed with stubbornness,
forgiveness a ness from a life
more fairytale, the hard breathing still, still.
A wing flaps and fear scurries out,
a mouse with a crumb it meant to eat earlier.
De Chirico empties the patio.